


Secrets Keep Us

by nimbus_underground



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimbus_underground/pseuds/nimbus_underground
Summary: A chance encounter brings Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot together, just as they're both beginning their new lives in Gotham. Set pre-season 1.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	1. a chance encounter.

The amount of joy that Edward Nygma gleaned from his new job was, spare the irony, borderline criminal. 

If any one of his colleagues knew just how thrilling it was for him to standing here in this dingy apartment, studying bloodspatter on peeling walls, picking bits of brain and bone from the soiled carpet, and taking a magnifying glass to the corpse lying cold on the floor, they'd probably lock him up in Arkham immediately. Every stray hair and errand stain were like pieces of a morbid puzzle, and he loved every second of it. How fortunate the GCPD was that they were to employ the lanky, puzzle loving, true crime obsessed man and not be investigating a crime scene of his own creation instead. They had no idea.

An amused smile creeped across Ed's angular face as he leaned into a particularly nasty bloodspatter, covering half of the wall and a nearby (disappointingly empty) bookshelf. His expression would be unsettling to the outside observer, be it that the corpse of a middle aged man missing half of his brain lie just two feet away from the grinning fool.

"Found something interesting there, Nygma?" A low voiced pulled him out of his trance. Although Edward was not particularly adept at social interaction, he sensed a hint of sarcasm, or annoyance, in the words. Something Edward found directed at him often, although why, he couldn't quite fathom.

"Yes, Detective Bullock," he retorted cheerfully, turning from the bloodspatter to smile at his colleague. The disheveled man frown in response. Edward continued, unabated, "the pattern of blood across this wall is at an angle that indicates whoever attacked this man was significantly taller than him."

"Well this guy's gotta be what," Bullock eyed the dead man at his feet, tilting his head as if he was trying to imagine the corpse standing, "six foot? So that makes his attacker..."

"Six foot three at least. Or taller."

"Or taller. Great. That could be off use once we have a few suspects. Got anything else helpful?"

"Well. The bruises on his face indicate he was most likely beaten right before being shot, which was the cause of death. I won't know much else until I'm back at the lab."

"Sounds personal. Looks like this is one of Fish Mooney's guys, too. She is going to be pissed about this," Bullock whistled raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. Ed watched the detective flip out his phone and start dialing. "Why don't you go uh, check out the bedroom for evidence Ed, I gotta make a call real quick." 

Ed furrowed his brow but complied. It seems as though he might have missed something in the exchange, but it would be far easier to just take Bullock's suggestion that ask for clarification. He moved into the bedroom, which despite its unsightly appearance didn't seem to have been affected by whatever scuffle ended the victim's life. An unmade bed, nightstand covered in half empty beer bottles and mugs of god knows what, and not much else.

After a beat, Bullock stuck his head in from the other room, "Eddie-boy! We gotta go pay a visit to Fish."

"But, I'm not done collecting evidence Detective. There are still fingerprints to dust for and -"

Bullock cuts him off curtly, "yeah whatever Ed, the place is taped off. No one is going to come in or out. Let's gooo."

"Shouldn't we at least leave an officer at the door while we're gone?"

Bullock sighed, "Ed it's just you and me here. We're short on back up right now."

Ed contorted his face into a look of displeasure. Though it was true the GCPD was under staffed and over worked as a whole, this is one of the first cases he was allowed to work on his own as the new forensic analysis. He did not want to leave so abruptly, "well, if we're so short staffed why don't we split up. I'll finish up here and wait for the coroner to come collect the body, and then you can go speak to Ms. Mooney in the meantime."

Bullock pressed his thumb and forefinger to his brow in a gesture Edward was beginning to recognize as a sure sign of frustration. "Fine. But no touching the body, you know how the MD gets. Promise?"

"Yes!" Ed chirped, "of course of course. I won't touch the body! I promise."

"I'll be back in an hour. Two hours. Maybe. Why don't you just get yourself a cab back to the station when you're done."

Ed opened his mouth to respond but Bullock was already out the door, surprisingly swift for someone usually so reticent to do any actual work. Ed shrugged and returned to the living room, immediately crouching down next to the body with his magnifying glass outstretched. He smiled with giddy excitement being left alone at a crime scene for the first time. 

\---

Dark cloud gathered over Gotham, transforming the crimson evening sunset into a dismal grey. Oswald scowled at the sky as he slipped out the back of Fish Mooney's club. Damn Butch Gilzean and his incompetency, unable to complete even the most basic of tasks. Kill the double-crossing informant, and take all the incriminating files with him. 

Of course, leave it to Butch to get so caught up in beating a man to death that he forgets to finish the job. Oswald would never understand why his new employer loved the overgrown simpleton so much.

Oswald scowled reflexively arriving at his destination, just as it began to rain. He quickly ducked into the poorly lit alley behind the now deceased informant's apartment. At least he could imagine Fish Mooney getting her pristine hair wet, while her precious umbrella boy was out doing the dirty work. 

He shuffled up to rusted out dumpster, pushed conveniently under the fire escape attached to the building. With a little effort, the small man was able to clamber up and onto the first rung.

Why he was sent on this mission, of all that his employer could have trusted him with, was beyond him. His talents lie in being smart and cunning, and just polite enough to slip past anyone with an ego. Although, he admitted at he shimmied up the latter and onto the windowsill of the apartment, his small stature might just come in handy this time. So long as Fish's plan to lure Detective Bullock away from the crime scene was going as planned. 

Having friends in high places paid off in Gotham, and Ms. Fish Mooney certainly had many of them. Oswald was sure to take note.

Peering through the grimy window, Oswald scanned for any lingering cops left in the shabby apartment. All he could see was an unmade bed and a cluttered nightstand. Disgusting, but empty. 

Gripping the pigeon-shit covered frame, he yanked the window open with some effort, waiting a beat for any reaction within. When he was met with only silence, Oswald slid in through the small opening, before letting it slam shut behind him. He made his way to the bed, wiping his hands on the comforter before straightening his crisp collar. 

Quickly, he got to searching. If Fish's information was right, the files should be hidden somewhere in the bedroom. From Oswald's experience, even the most intelligent informants were never really that clever. For them, hiding places were just holes in couches where money and guns could be stuffed, or boxes high on shelves labeled "NOTHING SUSPICIOUS HERE." Based on his current surroundings, he doubted it would take long to find what he was looking for. 

In a flurry, he ripped off the bedsheets, grabbing the edge of the mattress to slide it off the box spring. Nothing. Next he walked around the room to the nightstand, yanking the drawer off its hinges and flipping it over. No false bottom. That would be too smart, of course. 

He was being far too careless, and he knew it. But the bubble of rage that sat in his chest at all times egged him on. Often, the feeling was one of his best assets. No matter how beaten down or humiliated he was, it never let him quit. Just as often though, it got him into serious trouble. Frequently impatient, filled with near-homicidal rage at all times, it was like walking around with a live grenade in your chest ready to go off at any moment. This time, it urged him on get the goods, get out. Prove yourself to Fish you can be more than just a breathing umbrella stand. 

He looked around. There wasn't much else in the room, and dammit he was really hoping not to have to search the whole filthy apartment. 

One last spot to check. Oswald got down to on his hands and knees, peering under the bed, now with his back to the door. Ah! Yes, there that must be it. A shoebox shoved unceremoniously up by the headboard. Of course he was right, he scoffed, dropping fully onto his stomach and began to shimmy under the old bed. 

One hand extended, he could just barely tap the edge of the box with his outstretched fingers. Shoulder pinned under the frame, he struggled against the weight of the bed. It creaked in protest. Would it be an advantage or disadvantage to have the brut force of someone like Butch at a moment like this? 

Disadvantage, he decided, sucking in his breath to slip another inch under the mattress. It was just enough so that he could palm the edge of the box and -

"Excuse me sir, I don't think you're supposed to be here."

An icy chill flashed up Oswald's spine. He clambered backward, scrapping the shoulder against the bedframe as he attempted to free himself from its suddenly claustrophobic confines. He leapt up and lunged toward the nightstand, grabbing one of the glass bottles and turned to the intruder, shaking it in what he hoped was a threatening manner. 

Much to his surprise, the intruder made no move to attack nor arrest him. Instead, the lanky young man before him just stood in the doorway of the bedroom and raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture. The man smiled, a somewhat confused but polite little smile.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? This place was supposed to be empty," Oswald spat.

"I'm Edward Nygma," the man responded, smiling a little wider now, as if that was the answer the all of life's questions. An uncomfortable second passed, "this is a crime scene, sir. You shouldn't be here."

Oswald lowered the bottle a few inches, thrown off by the disarming nature of someone who had just caught him breaking into a dead man's bedroom. There was an GCPD patch on the man's jacket and a lanyard that must have his name and credentials. He was dressed in a way that almost reminded Oswald of a librarian. 

No gun, no uniform. Not a cop, not a detective, but still a problem. 

"You work for the GCPD, I see."

"And you must work for Ms. Fish Mooney?"

Oswald swallowed hard. Unassuming, maybe. But not your run of the mill idiot from the precinct. He weighted his options. Run, fight, or lie. 

"I don't know who you're talking about. I just dropped by to see an old friend," Oswald responded with his signature shit-eating grin, "has something happened?"

"Homicide. A single gun shot wound to the head. Professional job," the man said, reciting the words like he was making an official report, "but I have a feeling you already knew that."

Oswald scoffed, "I have no idea what you're talking about. If I did commit a homicide, do you think I'm stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime?"

"Oh no, I know you didn't kill him. You're far too short."

Oswald clenched his jaw, and the man named Edward blushed as if he just realized what he said.

"Oh, no I don't mean you're too short, you're certainly not too short, your height is perfect. For you. I think it suits you very well actually. I mean, that is not what I'm trying to say. What I'm trying to say is that you're too short to have killed the victim. You see I was analyzing the bloodsplatter and based on the trajectory whoever killed him must have been much taller than him, at least six foot three and what I meant to say is you are not six foot three. I'm only suggesting that you must work for Ms. Mooney and came here to collect, something, important. So you must have know the victim was deceased."

Now it was Oswald's turn to blush, _am I being insulted or hit on?_

The man opened his mouth like he was going to ask a question, and suddenly a door from somewhere deeper in the apartment slammed open. 

\---

Ed responded on reflex alone, grabbing the bedroom door handle and shutting it as quietly as possible behind him. Now it was just him and this stranger alone in a dead man's bedroom. A stranger, trying to steal evidence from a crime scene, with a look on his face sharp enough to cut glass. Edward's heartbeat was very loud all of the sudden. 

Immediately upon hearing the front door slam open, the short man in front of him grabbed the box at his feet and nearly leaped over the bed toward the window. 

Ed was stunned by his own reluctance to do anything about it. There was something about this well-dressed, curt man before him that peaked Edward's interest. He had always had a fascination with death and crime and the seedy underworld of Gotham, mostly content to learn about it from the safety of his job. But before him right now, was someone working for Ms. Mooney. THE Ms. Fish Mooney. And not a dead someone. The secrets he must know. The crimes he must have witnesses, participated in, even. 

The man struggled to open the window. It was old and covered in layers of paint, and refused to budge. Ed watched him reel back a fist, and found himself leaping across the room, grabbing the other man's arms just in time, "wait!" 

The short man whipped his head around, icy green eyes burning with incredulous rage. It sent a shiver up Ed's spine. This close, Ed suddenly noticed his spikey black hair, how angular the mans face was, his sharp nose somewhat softened by a spray of tawny freckles. Were criminals always so stunning up close?

"What are you doing?"

Ed cleared his throat, shaking himself of any distracting thoughts. "That will make too much noise, there's another window in the bathroom," he responded, tilting his head to the right where the door to the bathroom was, "try that one." The man stared back in confusion. 

"Why are you helping me. What do you want?"

They were whispering now, faces just inches apart, "I've heard of Ms. Mooney. If you don't get out of here with that, you'll be the next crime scene I'm investigating. Is that correct?" The man simply nodded in response, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I'll go distract the detective."

"Ok."

Ed turned to leave, and hesitated, remembering the question he meant to ask earlier, "sir, I didn't catch your name?"

"My name is Oswald. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot."

Ed smiled. Of course it was, no other name would have suited such a man. "It was, um, nice to meet you Mr. Cobblepot."


	2. crossing wires.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald asks around. Edward does some light snooping.

It was another gloomy day in Gotham with storm clouds settling on the horizon and Fish Mooney's dark car made its way downtown. Oswald figited in the back seat, where he was pressed uncomfortably between Butch and the hard metal door. The car was enormous, a spotless shiny black Escalade with all leather interior, but the large man still managed to take up more than half of their shared bench seat.

Fiddling with the bottom button of his waistcoat, Oswald pressed the metal between his fingers. He absentmindedly twisted until it strained against the thread holding it in place, letting it go to spin back to its original position, over and over again. Butch and Ms. Mooney were deep in conversation, one that Oswald would normally be carefully eavesdropping in on while they were too engrossed to pay any attention to him. Today couldn't stall his own thoughts long enough to catch even the topic. 

Something was bothering him. 

He could not stop thinking about the lanky man in the librarian sweater. For the past five days, the man was like a shadow in the corner of his thoughts. Always creeping up when he wasn't expecting it.

It was agonizing, like a loose thread hanging from your jacket, and every time you pull it just gets longer. Oswald could not for the life of him think of any reason why this complete stranger, who worked for the GCPD no less, would help him out. If Detective Bullock had found him in the apartment, there was no doubt in Oswald's mind he would still be in jail, if not worse. Fish Mooney didn't take kindly to failure, and an umbrella boy wasn't worth the bail. 

And Edward just, let him go. More than that, gave him a hand out the window. Asked for his name. He was, nice. 

It bothered Oswald. More than bothered. Infuriated. No one was nice in Gotham. Especially not to him. 

Maybe he got lucky and it was someone on Fish's payroll. Or maybe, it was someone looking for a favor. There must be some ulterior motive, he was sure of it.

Oswald scowled at the thought of owing some know-it-all at the GCPD a favor, and tugged a little too hard at the button. With a pop it flung itself out of his grasp and clattered across the car, coming to a stop between Fish Mooney's razor sharp stilettos. 

Fish shot him an icy glare, as the car pulled to a stop in front of Mooney's Nightclub. Oswald could feel Butch rock against his shoulder with subdued laughter. Before she could scold him, he turned the other way and scrambled out of the door, running quickly to the other side to help her out of the car. He took his rightful place, a step behind and to the left, holding the umbrella up high as they made the short walk from the curb to the front door. Oswald was not a particularly tall man, but luckily Ms. Mooney was still an inch shorter than he, even in her dangerously high stilettos. 

Oswald assumed that was part of the reason why he was granted the job. They made quite a scene walking anywhere in Gotham. Fish Mooney, always glittering in her bright bejeweled dresses, with the hulking frame of Butch on her right, and Oswald teetering a step behind to her left. It was dramatic to say the least. 

"Boy, would you be a dear and grab your momma a drink?" Fish cooed, as they breached the entrance of her club. Despite the name, it was more speakeasy than nightclub, the walls lined in soft red velvet, glassy candle-lit centerpieces giving the room a warm glow. Without the nighttime crowds, you could almost call it cozy. If you selectively ignore the scent of liquor seeping out of the dark floorboards. 

"Yes, Miss Mooney," Oswald nodded, peeling off to stand at the long bar as Fish made her way over to her personal booth. A semi-circle of plush, dark cushions tucked in the corner. It had a perfect view of the stage, and line of sight to the exit. He didn't have to say anything to the bartender, who had started making Fish's usual the second they walked in. 

Butch slid up to the bar, a little too close. He placed his massive hand, palm down in front of Oswald with a thud, lifting it up to reveal the button that had popped off in the car. Oswald grimaced, darting his hand out to grab the button and shove it in his pocket. He braced for a scathing quip.

"Something on your mind buddy? You seem uptight today. Well, more uptight that usual," Butch queried, tapping his finger on the bar to alert the bartender for a drink of his own.

Oswald blanched for a moment, not used to this kind of warmth from Butch. Warmth, or suspicion, "It's called being focused. You should try it some time."

"Ah ok, still mad at me from the other day. I get it."

"I don't know what you're talking about Butch, I love cleaning up after you."

"It's your job, Penguin," Oswald flinched at his hated nickname, "you got it all back, and you're in one piece. What's the problem."

"Barely," Oswald huffed under his breath.

"Barely? Detective Bullock was here the whole time."

"Yes, but some nosy forensic analyst was there snooping around."

"Who? Did they see you?"

"What? No. I don't know who he was, just some idiot from the GCPD. He didn't see me, I slipped out the window before he knew I was even there. But the place was supposed to be empty."

Butch grunted, "you sure I don't need to made a house call? I don't want this guy causing trouble for Fish if he saw you."

"I said, he didn't see me," Oswald thought for a moment, "besides, Fish has half the GCPD staff under her thumb, probably not a threat."

"No one in forensics on the payroll." 

_Bingo_. Oswald hid a smile as he reached over to grab Fish's drink which the bartender had just placed in front of him. He placed it on a tray and rushed away before Butch could ask any more questions. 

If Edward Nygma wasn’t one of Fish’s stooges, maybe it was time for Oswald to have his own friends in high places. 

\---

Edward padded up the short flight of steps that seperated the GCPD detectives' desks from the cacophonous bullpen below. Clutched against his chest was a manila file folder, with evidence from a recent case. Detective Bullock had specifically requested him to look over a few details, something that had him beaming with pride. Sure, the detective didn't seem personally that fond of him, but he was far nicer than the rest of the cops here in the precinct, and having someone admire your work was almost as nice of having someone actually like you. 

Ed halted at the top step, looking over the cluster of desks haphazardly pushed together in front of him. Bullock's desk cluttered with files and empty coffee cups, pens and sticky notes scattered everywhere. The sight itself made Edward uneasy. 

"No wonder the Detective is always losing stuff," Ed muttered to himself, looking around. The disheveled detective was nowhere in sight. He put the file he was carrying on top of the desk and frown. It would be fine to just leave the file here for Bullock to find later, it was not urgent. If Bullock could find anything at all in this mess. 

Ed picked up the file again, set it to the side, and began scooping up pens, piling them in one clean-ish looking mug, grabbed the disposable coffee cups in varying states of soilage and decay and shoved them into a nearby trash can, and began stacking the files in as orderly a pile as possible, until one caught his eye. An old, well creased folder with the name "Maria Mercedes Mooney" scrawled across it. 

Ed flipped it open, scanning the first page. It was a handwritten report from Ms. Mooney, taken just five days prior when her employee was murdered. Bullock probably put it in here and forgot the whole folder on his desk, the same day Ed met that strange man. Oswald Cobblepot. 

The statement was nearly illegible, in Detective Bullock's terrible handwriting, but it didn't say much anyway, just confirming she knew the man and that she had an alibi all day. No idea who would have wanted to hurt him, and so on. Is this really what took Bullock so long? He never returned to the crime scene after the coroner burst in, and Ed had been forced to ride back with the MD who was not his biggest fan. Apparently he didn't like being constantly corrected by someone below him in the pecking order.

Ed continued to flip through the file folder, curious to see if there was anything about Oswald. He hasn't stopped thinking about the man since their strange encounter, but there was no file on anyone named Oswald Cobblepot. Maybe he had been mistaken about the man's line of work. 

He flipped through until he stumbled on a photo. It was of Ms. Mooney, she appeared to be standing in an alley, mouth parted and hand raised like she was making a threatening gesture. There was an umbrella held above her, he followed the long handle down to a pale hand and...standing just behind Ms. Mooney was Oswald Cobblepot. Dark hair slicked over his face, and grinning in a way that could only be described as mischievous. 

Lost in his task, Edward didn't notice when someone walked up to the desk. The man cleared his throat, loudly.

Ed looked up, wide eyed, to see a handsome man with cropped dirty blond hair giving him a quizzical look. This must be the new detective everyone had been talking about. Apparently, he was making quite a splash at the precinct. Ed quickly shoved the folder onto the stack with the others. 

"Does Bullock know you're cleaning his desk?"

Ed blushed and shook his head, "I just didn't want these files to get lost," he said, pointing to the new folder he had brought over. He held his breath, waiting for a scolding from the new guy.

Instead, the man chuckled, "I guess I should thank you. Now that I'm sharing the space," the detective gestured to the new desk that had been pushed up against Bullock's. It was tidily organized, but some of Bullock's mess was already spilling over the cleft between the two. 

"I'm Jim Gordon, Bullock's new partner. And you are?" The man extended his hand.

Ed looked at it, blinking. "What belongs to you, but is used by others?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's a riddle! What belongs to you, but is used by others?"

"Um, I don't know. What is it?"

"Your name! Mine is Edward Nygma, I'm the forensic analyst," Ed pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before returning the strong handshake. 

"Um, nice to meet you Edward."

"Likewise. If you need anything Detective, please let me know. I'm very good at puzzles!"

"I'll keep that in mind," the new detective made a face somewhere between a smile and grimace.

Ed nodded and slipped off, back down the stair and around to the lab in the back of the precinct. Shutting the door securely behind him, he slipped the photo and attached report out from where he stuffed it in his jacket. Somehow the detective didn't notice, or maybe was too polite to say anything. 

He smoothed the papers against the cold metal table and Oswald stared back at him from the photo. He flipped it over and thumbed through the report. It was more about Ms. Mooney, but maybe this one contained some details about Mr. Cobblepot that he wasn't able to find elsewhere. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, it was far too late in the day to get into it, so instead he shoved the papers into his bag, grabbed his coat, and slipped back out the door. 

At least he would have some light reading with dinner tonight. 

\---

The heavy metal entryway door on a three story brick building swung closed with an authoritative bang. From the outside, the building appeared more warehouse than residential. A plain facade, nothing but concrete and weeds for blocks, and the windows were all those square panes that made for terrible insulation. The only indication that anyone lived here was a rusty row of mailboxes just outside the entrance. 

Oswald leaned against a decaying tree, barren of any leaves and most of its bark, across the street. Cigarette perched between his lips, his icy green eyes watched the windows for any indication of life. He only had to wait a minute, till one of them lit up, silhouetting a lanky figure for a moment before they walked out of the windows view. Oswald flicked his cigarette butt onto the damp concrete and waltzed across the street.

No security cameras on the front door, and all it took was a credit card placed artfully between the lock and the doorframe, with a satisfying click Oswald was inside the building. Clearly, this Edward Nygma was new to Gotham. 

The apartment was easy enough to find, top floor on the right. A heavy industrial sliding door stood between him and the answer to what had been bugging him for almost a week now. Oswald contemplated just picking the lock, and giving this newby a scare. That might teach him not to be so nice to people he couldn’t trust. 

Instead he raised his fist and rapped loudly on the door. 

After a beat, Edward slid open the door, revealing Oswald staring up at him with the same mischievous look from the photo.

"Hello, Mr. Nygma."


	3. making arrangements.

After a pause, the heavy door slid open. A chill of delight ran up Oswald's spine, as he looked up and into the dark eyes of the tall man before him. The confusion, and the look of shock that quickly spread across his new aquaintence's face was almost intoxicating. 

"Hello Mr. Nygma," Oswald chirped, relishing in the tinge of fear that radiated off of him.

Oswald drank in the man's figure while he waited for a response, just as lanky and bookish as he remembered. Dressed in khakis and a different, but equally as librarian-esk sweater. Oswald was curious what a man like this did in his freetime. Crossword puzzles? Maybe he knew how to knit. Wouldn’t that be quaint. 

"How did you-"

"I believe I owe you a thank you," Oswald cut him off as soon as he began, "for coming to my assistance the other day." 

Edward's brow knit tightly together, mouth moved silently like he meant to say something but couldn't fathom an appropriate response. Oswald continued, unabated. 

"I have to say, if you had not been so kind. Well, I regret to think what might have happened. As you so astutely pointed out, my employer is not the forgiving type." 

"Oh, yes Mr. Cobblepot, I-"

"Please, call me Oswald," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Of course, Mr., I mean, Oswald. You're very welcome. But, how did you know where to find me?" The man glanced over his head and down the hallway, as if there was a better explanation standing behind him. 

Oswald pointedly ignored the question, "I brought you something, as a gesture of my gratitude," he said, and with a flourish produced a bottle of red wine from his coat, as if performing a magic trick. It was a nice bottle, not overly expensive but something he couldn't have just snuck out of the bar. The gift was somewhat genuine in its origin, at least. 

"Wow, that's not necessary sir. But, um, thank you," Edward hesitantly extended a hand to accept the gift but Oswald pulled it away from his grasp. He tilted his head toward the open space between the tall man and the doorframe. 

"Do you mind? I thought we could share a drink. It's a rather cold night, and it would be nice to warm up before I walk home." So maybe it was less of a gift, and more of a bargaining chip. 

"Oh yes, of course I'm so sorry," Edward blushed, as if he should have known better, as if it was customary to invite strangers who show up on your doorstep into your home, as if this was totally normally and he was the one being rude, "please come inside, let me take your coat." 

This was turning out to be too easy. 

Oswald grinned as he passed through the threshold, handing the bottle to Edward and carefully shrugging off his coat. He watched the lanky man fumble, juggling the bottle in one hand while holding his coat at arms length like it was a live animal. The man seemed to be at a loss with what to do with it now in his possession.

No coat hangers, apparently. Or closets. No real rooms of any sort, Oswald realized as he took in his environment. The apartment had a very industrial feel to it, all open layout with a kitchen in one corner and a bed on the opposite side. It was spacious, and cold, and not what he was expecting. 

\---

Edward fumbled with his hands full, feeling a bit like a deer caught in the headlights of a swiftly approaching semi truck. Had he really allowed this complete stranger, an associate of the infamous Fish Mooney and presumably a career criminal, into his apartment without protest? And why now he was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and this man's well tailored coat in the other?

The fabric felt soft and heavy in his hand, and suddenly Edward was very self conscious about the state of his apartment. He set the wine down on the nearest flat surface, looking around for a decent place to put the coat. The apartment was less of an apartment and more of an abandoned floor he was able to rent out for cheap. The essentials were there, kitchen, bathroom, a bed. But without walls it lacked a certain warmth. And closets. 

He made a mental note to purchase a coat rack with his next paycheck, realizing painfully that most people probably would be used to having guests by now and would have thought of that. A chair would have to do for now, he decided, delicately folding the coat over the back of a soft, if slightly worn, armchair he had proffered from a nearby thrift store. Giving it a nervous little pat, he turned to the next problem in this scenario. He pickled up the bottle of wine and turned it over in his hands.

"I'm afraid I don't have a wine bottle opener," he said, looking over to his guest who was now eyeing him curiously from across the room.

"Ah, no problem," Oswald took a step closer, holding out a hand. Ed placed the bottle back in Oswald's possession and watched the man produce a knife from his pocket. With a sickening flash, the blade flipped open and in one swift motion he sliced the foil wrapper from the stem. Then, in what was surely a well practiced move, plunged the blade into the cork and deftly pulled it out. 

The knife, his effortless movements with a blade, should be terrifying. Edward tried not to imagine how easy it would be for the man to slit his throat right now where he stood. The thought of the cold blade against his skin made his stomach flutter. 

Oswald looked up and caught his eye. He had been staring, and Edward had noticed people tend not to like it when you stare, but it was impossible to look away. There was something intoxicating about his presence, like standing on the edge of a cliff. 

The man cleared his throat, "working in a bar, you pick up a few tricks," he offered with a shrug. 

"Yes, of course," Edward responded, breaking free from his trance. "Glasses! I do have those." He retrieved two mismatched cups from the spare kitchen. "I'm afraid they're not wine glasses."

Edward placed them on the only table, and they sat down. Looking over two full glasses of red wine, Oswald looked just as sharp and intimidating as the photo. As his memory from just days ago. Ed tried to suppress a laugh from the absurdity of the situation. 

"So, what brings you to Gotham?" Oswald asked, reaching for his glass.

"I was looking for a fresh start, of sorts. And a job. There are a lot of opportunities for forensic scientists in this city."

"I can believe that," he responded with a wiggle of the eyebrow.

"Is it that obvious? That I'm not from Gotham, I mean."

"Painfully obvious, if you don't mind me saying. Most Gotham natives would know better than to invite a stranger into their home."

Ed cleared his throat, "but we're not strangers. We've met before. And I know your name."

"That's true. I suppose we're not strangers anymore. Speaking of our previous encounter, may I ask what inspired your act of kindness the other day?"

"Well, I," Ed thought for a moment, "I don't really know what came over me."

"You, don't know?"

"Admittedly, I wasn't really thinking when it happened." 

"Really? You seem like a smart man. And an employee of the GCPD. And you just let me go, for no reason at all?" Oswald pressed, an icy glint in his eyes.

Before Edward could stop himself, "If you know me, you will want to share me, but if you share me, I am gone. What am I?"

"Pardon?"

"If you know me, you will want to share me, but if you share me, I am gone. It's a riddle."

Oswald sat back in his chair, absently swirling the glass in his hand. Edward was surprised he was actually considering the question.

"A secret."

"Precisely! Can you keep a secret?" 

Oswald squinted, pressing his lips together in a hard line. Edward couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused. "It's my job to keep secrets."

"Right. I work for the GCPD, as you know, but in all honesty it's because, well, because I like being around crime."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, everything about it I find fascinating. Studying it, solving puzzles, the blood and the death. It doesn't bother me, I think I enjoy it in fact. Working for the GCPD allows me to be around it all day. I saw you and I couldn't stop you. I didn't want to. Because I think I'm like you Oswald. In a way."

Ed looked up from his glass, which he had been staring into, and met Oswald's eyes. He was grinning, that dark mischievous grin from the photo. Ed couldn't help but smile in return. 

\---

Oswald can’t believe his luck. It was even better than he could imagine. His new friend was not a dullard or a stooge for the GCPD, despite his choice in employment. The man was smart, and more importantly curious. That was something he could work with.

"May I make a proposition?" he queried, leaning over the table to pour another glass of wine for Edward. 

"Yes, please do!" the man chirped back. His dark eyes were beginning to lose focus, his posture relaxed remarkably from when Oswald surprised him at the door just an hour or so ago. The wine was doing its work, although Oswald was beginning to think it was entirely unnecessary. 

"I think we can help each other out. You have something I want, and I have something you want."

"Information!"

"Precisely, my friend. I can keep you up to date with all of the criminal goings-on of Gotham's underworld. The darkest, bloodiest information that you can't even find working in the morgue. And in exchange-"

"I keep you one step ahead of the GCPD."

Oswald smiled in response. He was almost beginning to like this man, "and you would be comfortable doing this for me? Can I trust you?"

Oswald watched an expression shift across the planes of his new friend’s face, first realization shifting into excitement, and then something dark and mischievous. 

"Trust. If treated with care I can be great, and if betrayed I will break. You can trust me Oswald," and with that he stood quickly, stumbling against the chair. "I have something for you."

"What?" Oswald watched him wander over to a pile of things on the other side of the room and riffle through a worn messenger bag, producing a manila folder. Edward returned and placed it in front of him on the table.

He flipped open the folder to reveal a glossy photo taken of Fish Mooney a few months back, and there he was in the background. Oswald started at the photo of himself and self consciously brushed a hand through his slicked hair.

"Why do you have this?"

"I took it from the precinct. I wanted to learn more about you after our meeting the other day, but there are no files on an Oswald Cobblepot. This is all I could find."

He smirked, flattered by the thought of Edward searching through the files at the GCPD looking for his name. He lifted the photo and set it aside, thumbing through the report. It seems as though someone was doing extensive stake out work on Fish Mooney, but weren't able to pin her down for anything. Of course, she's too clever to get caught by cops. She buys them out, treats them to free drinks at the bar, lots of flattery. If Detective Bullock is any example, it works wonders. 

"Why is that?" Edward spoke again. Oswald looked up and noticed the man was hovering, their shoulders just brushing. He shivered reflexively. 

"Why is what?"

"There's nothing on you at the GCPD, I couldn't even find you in the phone book."

"By design. My mother's maiden name is Kapelput. I changed my last name when I started working for Fish Mooney. I didn't want my mother to be put in harm's way, in case something ever happens to me. She's a saint, my mother." 

Edward just nodded in response, with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"This is excellent Edward, thank you."

Edward slipped back into the seat and raised his glass with a smile, "cheers."

"To new friends," Oswald tipped his glass till the rims met with a resounding clink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao friends yeah we'll see how long that lasts ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new at this so, comments appreciated! I don't have a set schedule yet for when I'm coming out with chapters, but I'm thinking it should be about 5 or 6 total. We'll see!


End file.
